


Indefinite Probability

by sleepingangel



Category: BioShock Infinite, Bioshock (series)
Genre: BAMF!Reader, Dark Past, F/M, Femme Fatale, Friendship, Gen, Other, Redemption, Revenge, TW: Racism, Trigger warning: Alcoholism, cute platonic girl love with elizabeth, dark backstory, repentence, strongly implied that reader is female, trigger warning: racism, tw: alcoholism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:14:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3302069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingangel/pseuds/sleepingangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You came to the city in a desperate bid for a second chance. But it seems that perhaps redemption and revenge are just two sides of the same coin. </p><p> </p><p>Eventual Reader x Booker, as well as platonic!Reader x Elizabeth</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01 -- Once Upon a Time...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life isn't a fairy tale, but obviously no one had told you that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, no Booker or Elizabeth yet, but I promise they're coming soon. I'll spend the first couple of chapters establishing your backstory, but I'll try to get to the action as soon as possible. (I'll also try to stay true to the plot of the original game, but obviously there will be things that I'll have to change.)
> 
> ((I obviously don't own BioShock Infinite, nor am I associated with the game in any way aside from being a dedicated player and huge fan of the series. Although there will be a few OCs in this story -- I'll try to keep them as few and far between as possible -- most of the characters, along with the entire story world of Columbia, are not originally mine.))

It was common knowledge that (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N) was not a good person. You had done terrible things in the name of saving your own skin. No one could blame you for running as far away from your own reputation as your feet could take you. When you heard about the city in the clouds, you wasted no time in securing a ticket for the very next airship to Columbia.

Of course, you weren't always a mercenary with a heavy conscience. Like all people, you were once a child with wide eyes and a sweet smile. Unfortunately, your childhood was cut short much too soon.

You were born in a small town in the Deep South. Your mother was a gentle southern belle, born and raised on a cotton plantation owned and run by her father. She fell in love with the handsome young owner of the general store in town, a real country gentleman, and within a few years they were married and had you, their beautiful little daughter. For several years, your family life was pure innocent bliss. You spent your early days exploring and playing in the storeroom of your father's shop, crawling into bed with your parents when the summer thunder storms scared you, and running wild in the sunny fields of your grandparents' plantation, chased by invisible monsters and imagined faeries. You would always look back and smile at those first few years of your life, when you believed in everything and everybody believed in you.

The first disturbance of your small, happy world occurred when you were about seven years old. That was the day that The Man came.

You were sitting at the counter of your father's shop, legs swinging as you hummed a cheerful tune and watched him restocking the shelves. It had been a slow, sleepy day, so when you heard a commotion outside you were quick to jump down from your stool and investigate.

A traveling preacher had parked his humble covered wagon in the town square outside the shop. He stood on the wagon seat, clutching a Bible in one hand and waving the other in dramatic gestures as he shared his spiritual message in a booming voice with anyone who would listen. Even from your position in the doorway of your father's shop, you could see the milky whiteness of the man's eyes, and could tell from the way he stared into space and didn't seem to be quite facing his small audience that he was blind. It seemed that several travelers had hitched a ride with the preacher -- a handful of rugged looking men in worn out clothes sat in the back of the wagon, several of them stretching and hopping down to the ground.

There was one traveller in particular who caught your attention. To put it simply, he looked awful. He might have been quite handsome under different circumstances, but his fine features were somewhat diminished by his overgrown facial hair and the dark circles under his eyes. His thick brown hair was long and wild, and he looked like someone who had gone years without a hot meal or a goodnight's sleep. He sat in the back of the wagon, elbows propped on his knees, eagerly hanging on to every word that left the preacher's mouth with wide, hopeful eyes.

You felt your father come out of the shop, his warm, heavy hands settling on your small shoulders. The two of you stood there for a few moments, listening to the preacher's words. Your parents were not extremely religious people, but they went to church every Sunday and kept a Bible in the house. You knew that your father was interested in hearing what this man had to say.

When the preacher had finished speaking, the small crowd that had gathered began to disperse. Your father went to ask a question about the man's speech, leaving you to your own devices. You made your way over to the back of the wagon, carefully using one of the wheels to help you climb up and sit on the side. You poked the Wild Man, as you secretly referred to him in your head, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Hello!" You smiled brightly. "I'm (Y/N). What's your name?"

For some reason, the man hesitated for several seconds before replying. "Zachary," he said at last. "Zachary... er, Comstock. My name is Zachary Hale Comstock."

"Are you a preacher too, Mr. Comstock?" You leaned forward, watching the man with a curiosity that seemed to make him slightly uncomfortable.

"No," he chuckled bitterly. "I'm not a preacher. Although, now that I've seen Preacher Witting in action, it doesn't seem like a bad job."

"If you're not a preacher, what do you do?" You scrambled into the wagon and sat facing Mr. Comstock.

He was thoughtful for a moment. "I wander, I suppose. Preacher Witting has let me travel with him for a while now, but before that I was on my own."

"I bet you've seen a lot of really interesting things." You gushed excitedly.

Comstock shook his head, a regretful smile on his lips. "Too much."

"(Y/N)," Your father stood at the back of the wagon, smiling as he waved you over. "It's getting late, baby. It's almost time to close up the store."

"Look, Daddy!" You grabbed your new companion's hand, causing the young man to jump as if he were unused to human touch. "This is my new friend, Mr. Comstock!"

Your father surveyed your "friend" with kind eyes. "Well Mr. Comstock, I was just telling Preacher Witting about how we have a spare room in our home that never gets used. He's staying with us for a few days while he rests his horses. Your more than welcome to join us as well."

"Thank you sir, but I really--"

Mr. Comstock was cut off by the preacher, who chose that moment to appear and join the conversation. "Brother, you've been reborn in The Lord. And The Lord has sent this kind family to offer us shelter. Join us, Zachary."

"Of course. I apologize for my lack of manners." Mr. Comstock smiled, jumping down from the wagon.

 

Zachary, as he insisted you call him, stayed with your family for several weeks, even after Preacher Witting moved on. He worked in your father's store, and your parents let him stay in your spare room until he had enough money to set out on his own. You would often visit him during his shifts, always following him around and babbling about this and that. After the first few days, your mother tried to tell you to leave the poor man alone, but he insisted that he didn't mind at all. You noticed that, over the course of the time he stayed with you, Zachary began to spend more and more of his time off locked in his room. When you asked him about it, he said he was praying.

When the day came for Zachary to leave your family, you cried and cried, begging your parents to stop him, to make your dear new friend stay with you. Try as she might, your mother couldn't get you to calm down. Even your could not quiet your tears. Finally, Zachary took you aside himself.

"(Y/N)," he said kindly, smiling as he held one of your little hands. "I am very grateful to you. You are the first person who has been kind and accepting to me in a very long time. Your kindness has helped me to change my life. In fact, I believe that you are a kind of angel, sent by our Lord to help guide me back to my path." He looked into your eyes, his face suddenly serious. "I have seen a greater purpose for my life, and I have to go. But I'll always remember you as the angel who inspired all of it."

"I'll miss you." You sniffled.

"And I will miss you. But I know that we'll meet again, if The Lord wills it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a lot of research for this chapter, and from what I've read, Booker DeWitt was apparently in his late teens at Wounded Knee (which sounds about right, because a lot of soldiers who served back then were very young), and the baptism incident went down relatively soon afterwards. I wanted to explore Father Comstock's origin story a little more, so I used this chapter as an opportunity to do that. Because I don't think he was a crazy fanatic from the start, and I wanted to play around with that theme. Plus, your previous relations with Comstock will be important in later chapters for some pretty obvious reasons.
> 
> ((Also, the first two chapters of this story are very slightly based off of the lyrics of "Innocent" by Taylor Swift, just because I think the mood of that song fits this story very well.))


	2. 02 -- Innocence Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate times call for desperate measures, as you learn all to well when you find yourself making decisions that you never thought you'd have to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I managed to get good chunk of backstory into this chapter. I'm sorry if these chapters feel slightly rushed, but I'm trying to make them as efficient as I can so that we can get to Columbia, Booker, and Elizabeth as soon as possible. (At the rate we're going, I think Booker should come into the story in chapter four or five. Definitely no later than five.)

Things were never the same after Zachary left.

Your parents weren't as young as they used to be. Your father had been putting on a bit of weight lately, and your mother was starting to get wrinkles by her eyes. Your grandmother's health had begun to go downhill, so you were no longer able to visit her and your grandfather on the plantation. You spent your days in the back of your father's store, finding ways to occupy yourself. You began to feel lonely and neglected, as if you were just a nuisance to all of the adults around you. But things didn't really start to get bad until your mother got sick.

Your mother had always been the life of your home. She was a bright, happy woman who brought a feeling of warmth everywhere she went. She was always there to kiss your bumps and bruises, to tuck you in at night when you were afraid of monsters in the dark, and to wipe away your tears whenever something upset you. When a strand scarlet fever swept through the town when you were ten, she kept you inside, making sure you didn't have any contact with anyone who might be infected. Unfortunately, she wasn't quite as careful with her own health.

When your mother fell sick, your father immediately had a sick room prepared. You were not allowed to go inside and see her, but you would stand outside the door and talk to her. She spoke in a weak voice, assuring you that she would recover soon and that everything would be fine. You both knew that it was a lie.

You would never forgot the night you were woken roughly from a deep sleep by your father's shaking hands and loud sobs. As soon as you opened your eyes and asked him what was wrong, he enveloped you in a bone-crushing hug, crying and blubbering into your shoulder. You could barely make out his words: your mother had died. Once you realized what had happened, your shrill sobs all but drowned out his.

You cried all night and for most of the next day, but then you steeled yourself. You told yourself that you had to be strong. Your father was a complete wreck -- he could hardly take care of himself, let alone a grieving child. You suddenly found yourself taking on the role of an adult in the household; doing the housework that your father was too heartbroken to attend to, graciously accepting condolences from people you barely knew and assuring them that everything was fine when you knew it was not.

With his beloved wife gone, your father didn't know what to do with himself. He started drinking, spiraling deeper and deeper into an apathetic depression. Alcohol changes a man, and it changed him in horrible ways. By the time you were eleven years old, you were basically running the shop yourself while he slumped, hungover, in the back. You barely recognized the man who had once been your kind, loving father. Where he had once been loud and warm and full of life, he was no an empty shell of a man with haunted eyes and all of the fight drained out of him. In all honesty, he scared you.

People began to catch on to the gravity of your home situation. Women would smile sadly when they passed you in the street, while simultaneously herding their children away from you. Your customers left generous tips. People you barely knew would pat you on the shoulder and encourage you to "keep your chin up, dear." You hated it. You hated feeling like people pitied you, and you hated being treated like a helpless victim.

You began taking small measures to protect yourself and make yourself stronger. You found the toughest, meanest boy in the town and offered him free candy from the shop for a month in exchange for self defense lessons. He taught you how to protect yourself, how to block a punch, how to break someone's nose with the heel of your hand. He taught you how to fight dirty.

"People'll underestimate ya because you're a girl." He said during one of your lessons. "Use that to your advantage. Girls're s'posed t'be sweet an' pretty an' gentle -- they're supposed t' take whatever they're given an' be ladylike 'bout it. If ya can manage t' convince people that you're a helpless lady, then you'll have the upper hand because you'll have the element of surprise on your side. No one expects a lady t' deck 'em in the face."

By the time you were thirteen, you could beat boys twice your size in a fight. You started sneaking your father's rifle out of the house when he was in a drunken stupor, teaching yourself how to shoot out back. By the time you were fourteen, you were a force to be reckoned with.

You were sixteen when a new family moved to town, a preacher and his wife and son. The son, John, was a few years older than you, with sandy hair and eyes the color of dishwater. He wasn't exceptionally good looking, but he was sweet and polite and just a tad on the gullible side. After your first short conversation with the young man, you began to develop a plan to escape from this hopelessly dreary life of yours.

Every time you saw John, you made sure to look your very best, from your perfectly arranged hair to your clean, pretty dress. The poor boy could hardly take his eyes off of you. Just as it should be. That was a key part of your plan.

Only a few short months after you met John, he asked you to marry him. You acted your part perfectly, a silly, overjoyed teenager who couldn't think of anything she wanted more than to spend the rest of her life with this man she barely knew. You and John made plans to move to the big city and make a life together. You gushed over the prospect of a future together, and soon you were making preparations for the move. You convinced him that it would be best to wait and get married after you had furnished your new home.

You would never forget the moment you said goodbye to your father. You wandered into his bedroom, stepping around fragments of shattered glass that you could only assume came from a broken liquor bottle. He was slumped over at his desk, looking and smelling like he hadn't bathed in days, his shaky fingers loosely grasping a bottle. You approached slowly and cautiously, placing a hand on his back. "Daddy?"

"(Y/N)," he slurred, dropping the bottle with a soft thud and wrapping his fingers around your wrist. "Wha's wrong, baby?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow, Daddy." You smiled sadly, patting his back. "Remember John? Remember how I told you we were gonna move to the city and get married?"

"Jus' like your mother." He stumbled over the words, bleary eyes struggling to focus on your face. "Out of here 'fore I even have a chance to let go."

"Please don't be like that." You sighed, dropping down on your knees so you could look up into his eyes. "You know there's nothing left for me here. I have to move on. If I don't get out now, I never will."

"It's my fault, ain't it?" He started to cry, hoarse sobs echoing in the whiskey-scented air. "I'm sorry, baby. It's all my fault. I'm so sorry."

"Shh, it's okay." You wrapped your arms around him because it was the right thing to do, not because you forgave him for what he'd let himself become in the last six years. You shushed him and promised that it wasn't his fault and that everything would be alright, and you hoped he was too drunk to realize that it was all lies. You had talked to his doctor. You knew that his health was quickly spiraling down the drain. At the rate he was going, he had a precious few years left. He'd be dead by the time you were twenty, whether you stayed or not. And that was why you had to go.

As you sat there, comforting the broken, empty mess of a man that was once your brilliant father, you made yourself two promises. First, that you would never touch a drop of alcohol. Second, and much more complicated, that you would never let love ruin you like it had ruined him.

The next morning, you left the town forever, accompanied by John and his parents, who were going to stay with the two of you until after your wedding to prevent anything "inappropriate" from taking place. When you arrived in the city, the four of you settled down with relatively little incident. You spent the next several days being doted on by your future mother-in-law and rushed in and out of dress fittings and other important meetings for the wedding. You managed to keep up appearances, smiling at all the right moments and saying all the right things. No one could have suspected how completely eaten up with anxiety you really were.

It was the night before the wedding when you made your move. You excused yourself from dinner before any of the others, mumbling about nerves and wanting a good night's rest. You went to bed fully dressed, so that all you had to do was wait until your fiancé and his parents were all fast asleep.

Just before midnight, you crept out of your bedroom, nervously gripping the small bag that you had secretly packed earlier. You made it to the living room, where you tiptoed to the safe in the corner. Your heart seemed to have risen up into your throat, choking you, as you entered the combination that you had so carefully memorized. The safe opened with a click that was much too loud for your liking, causing you to jump and glance wildly around for any sign that you had been caught.

Inside the storage compartment was everything of value that your future in-laws owned. The preacher's rifle and handgun, his wife's jewelry, and a couple of hundred dollars in cash. You gathered up about half of the money, wrapping it neatly in your largest handkerchief and tying it in a knot before tucking it into your dress pocket. With shaking hands, you picked up the smaller gun, making sure it was unloaded before you gingerly slid it into your boot, where it was hidden yet easily accessible. You took the extra ammunition and hid it in your other boot, and then you were ready.

You had considered leaving a note, but you ultimately decided that it would only make things more complicated. There was no reason to break John's heart completely; he was a nice boy, and you felt guilty about using him to get out of your hometown. But you were young and desperate and not at all ready to give up your newfound freedom, and you knew that you could never be happy with a quiet, respectful soul like John. And so, with a guilty conscience weighing down your otherwise joyful heart, you slipped out into the night. You had a ticket for the next train out of the state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((This chapter and the next may have been just a teansy but influenced by the song "Hit And Run" by LOLO [one of my favorites!]. In case you haven't picked up on it yet, I like to listen to music while I write.))


	3. 03 -- Less Than Glamorous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn't take you long to realize that the world is a big and dangerous place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I wrap up your backstory, with a special guest towards the end of the chapter (wink wink).

You slumped defeatedly at the dingy hotel bar, stirring yet another spoonful of sugar into a mug of coffee that tasted remarkably like mud. That's what you got for ordering coffee at a bar, you mused. Your tired eyes scanned the bar with a calculating gaze, searching out the man who had arranged to meet you here tonight. 

It had been a rough few years since you ran away from John and the commonplace future he offered you. You realized very quickly that the men of your time weren't prone to taking women seriously, especially when those women were young, pretty runaways attempting to survive completely on their own. And any women you encountered just seemed disapproving of a girl like you traveling alone. Everyone gave you a hard time, from ticket masters in train stations, to hotel receptionists, to anyone you dared to ask for a job.

The first year or so was the worst. You were still hopeful back then, dreaming of finding a place where you could finally be accepted, maybe even people who would love you. But there was no such place, at least not for you. There was only cold nights alone and a constant air of uneasiness and restlessness. Sometimes men would see you, a woman all on her own, and try to take advantage of you. You were sure that it came as a nasty shock to them when you proved to be more than capable of defending yourself, often landing them in the hospital. Every time something like that happened, you'd be forced to leave down before your "victim's" friends tracked you down and made your life very, very difficult. Needless to say, you never stayed in one place for long.

You started to fall in with a "bad crowd," as your late mother would have referred to them. You started spending more and more time at low-class bars and gambling houses, as they were the only places you found any kind of acceptance. The regulars at those kinds of joints were more than a little rough around the edges. Men with whiskey on their breaths and guns at their sides, women with lose morals and low standards, gamblers who seemed to get a rush out of digging themselves deeper and deeper into debt -- these were the type of people you found yourself surrounded by. And the more time you spent in their company, the more you learned to think like them.

There came a time, about a year and a half after you first ran away, when you decided that taking a male traveling companion wasn't at all a bad idea. Finding one wasn't hard; at every bar you walked into, men were completely enamored by you. You had a kind of light that most of the women in those joints had lost long ago, and they were drawn to that. Over the next three years or so, you went through a string of several, all of them quite similar in that they were horrible people and even worse lovers. All of them were low lifes of some sort, whether they were gamblers or petty thieves or smugglers. Most of them had fiery tempers that tended to get them into trouble, and none of them would ever have backed down from a fight. All of your relationships ended the same way: with lots of screaming, several broken household items, and a lot of insults that could never be taken back. You knew that it wasn't healthy and you knew that what they offered you wasn't anything close to love, but you kept telling yourself that the next one would be different.

The last in this procession of dysfunctional love affairs was a rough, intimidating man with a thick British accent named Richard. Richard was worse than any of your past boyfriends; he was a tough, angry man who was addicted to adrenaline and drawn to danger. His line of work was anything but legal. Richard made people disappear. Every couple of months, he would meet a potential client in a shady, dirty bar; the client would pay him the negotiated fee, and then he would disappear for a few weeks. More often than not, he'd return in the middle of the night with blood on his hands -- literally. 

After half a dozen repeats of this scenario, you insisted that he tell you where he disappeared to and what happened while he was gone. He hung his head, his shaggy black hair partially shielding his eyes. "You won't like it."

You crossed your arms, standing firm. "Tell me anyway."

He sighed heavily before launching into a reluctant, but honest, explanation. He told you about what he did for a living. How he was payed to make people go away, permanently. When he had finished his speech, he took one of your hands and squeezed it sadly. "I understand if you want to leave me now."

You swallowed down the last of your nerves, convinced that this was an opportunity to finally shed the helpless reputation forced upon you because of your gender. "Nonsense," you smiled. "I want to help."

From then on, Richard never went on his jobs alone. At first, he refused to let you anywhere near the violence. A girl shouldn't have to see and do things like that, he said. For the most part, he had you serve as a distraction, or as bait. After all, people were much more likely to leave a party with a small, innocent-looking girl than with your tall, ridiculously muscular companion. But you learned. You picked up on the way he carried himself, the way his footsteps seemed to make almost no sound, the way he always went to an opponent's face in a fight. You watched silently, reaching yourself to emulate his methods.

It wasn't long before Richard was letting you work right alongside him. You never did any of the actual killing, but you did a lot of research and stakeouts, and seemed to have a special talent for infiltration. It also didn't hurt that you were handy with a gun and invaluable in a fight, with the added bonus of long having lost your squeamishness at getting your hands dirty. Even after you eventually parted ways with Richard in what was quite possibly the worst breakup you'd experienced yet, some of his old clients continued to offer you jobs, preferring your unique finesse and feminine touch over your ex's old fashioned brutality. You quickly made a name for yourself, earning a reputation for your professional attitude and willingness to take any job, no matter how difficult or messy, if the price was right. No one tried to mess with you anymore. (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N) was a force to be reckoned with.

Lately though, you felt like you were losing your touch. All of this bloodshed had a way of getting to your head. You never enjoyed your line of work, but now you couldn't even stand it. It made you physically sick, the things you'd done and continued to do so that you could afford to eat. You couldn't sleep without being plagued by nightmares about all the people you'd hurt over the years. You could barely manage to keep food down. You found yourself frequently crying uncontrollably, sometimes for hours at a time. You were falling apart at the seams.

So now, here you sat in a dingy little bar, sipping overly-sweetened sludge that barely passed for coffee and waiting for your next client to make himself known. He was already half an hour late, and you would've walked out if you didn't need his money so desperately. You were sure this must be some kind of business strategy to get you to lower your price. You sighed. If anything, you were going to charge him more for making you wait so long.

The bar's door swung open, revealing a woman who looked ridiculously out of place amongst the other customers. Her red hair was piled on top of her head, a look of stern disapproval on her face. She wore a brown skirt, a white button up shirt, a green tie, a light brown vest, and a tan jacket, all of which looked much too clean for a place like this. She strode straight towards you, not even sparing the other patrons a passing glance. She gave a dubious look to the seat next to you before shrugging and sitting down there. She turned to face you, eyes sweeping over you with the air of a scientist studying their latest experiment. When she spoke, it was in an accent. "(Y/F/N) (Y/L/N), I presume?"

You laughed incredulously. "You're R. Lutece? No offense lady, but you don't look like the kind of person who usually hires my services."

"I'm afraid you are mistaken." Madame Lutece shook her head slightly. "I am not here for your... 'unique' talents. I am here on behalf of my employer, Zachary Comstock. I believe you know him?"

Your eyes widened, a twisting feeling rising in your stomach. "I knew him once, when I was a child. How is Mr. Comstock?"

"Actually, he's going by Father Comstock these days." Lutece stated drily. "You've heard of Columbia, I'm sure?"

"Who hasn't?" You set your coffee down on the table, turning to face her fully. "It's been considered a threat to national security ever since it seceded and disappeared."

Madame Lutece nodded, a bored expression passing over her features. "I have been sent to extend a formal invitation from Father Comstock himself. He wishes for you to join him in the city."

"So, Comstock is in Columbia?" You chewed on the inside of your lip, processing the information.

"It would be more accurate to say that Comstock himself is Columbia." She replied quickly, "He controls nearly every aspect of the city. And, if you don't mind my saying," -- it was obvious from her tone that she didn't care if you minded or not -- "I think it would be in your best interest to humor him."

You shook your head. "I don't think so. If half the stories I've heard are true, Columbia is more like a floating cult than a city. I don't have a very good relationship with organized religion."

Lutece sighed, as if she found this next bit of her speech especially unpleasant. "Father Comstock instructed me to tell you that he offers complete absolution of your sins. Come to Columbia, and he will offer you a clean slate."

"Second chances don't matter," You mumbled, picking your coffee up once more. "People don't change."

"Suit yourself." Madame Lutece stood up, reaching into her pocket and retrieving a small, folded piece of paper. "If you change your mind, come to this address. Columbia is waiting."

With that, she slipped out of the bar as quietly as she had arrived, leaving you alone with a written address, a mug of lukewarm coffee, and a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was okay. I'm more or less done with backstory now, so I'm planning on introducing Columbia in the next chapter, and Booker in the one after that. I'm excited. :)


	4. 04. -- A Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rather uncomfortable journey and reunion with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON. I'M SO SORRY FOR HOW LONG IT'S BEEN SINCE THE LAST UPDATE. I do actually have a great excuse though. Basically, I had a cold which turned into strep, and then I had an allergic reaction to the antibiotics they put me on, but now I'm healthy and writing again. Updates will definitely be more frequent from here on out, but I'm also working on one-shot requests from two of my friends, so I won't be able to devote all of my time and attention to this story. (This update is the first thing I've done since I've been healthy enough to write though.) Oh, and BOOKER WILL ARRIVE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER, SO LOOK FORWARD TO THAT. Ahem. Anyway, on to chapter four.

You glanced down at the paper clutched in your hand, looking doubtfully back up at the building in front of you. Surely, this run down old lighthouse couldn't be where Madame Lutece had meant for you to go? It looked like it had been abandoned for years. You sighed, blowing out a puff of steamy breath in the cold winter air. You couldn't help but feel that you were hopelessly lost.

After the odd little episode in the bar, you'd done a lot of thinking. In your personal experience, second chances rarely lead to the happy endings one would hope. And yet, you had been beginning to think that you wouldn't be able to stand this lifestyle anymore, and here was a way out, practically handed to you on a silver platter. At the very least, no one in Columbia would know who you were or what you did for a living. What did you have left to lose? It was impossible for you to be happy in your current situation -- maybe you could build a life worth living in the city in the clouds.

So here you were, staring disbelievingly at the dingy lighthouse, all of your worldly possessions stuffed into the small bag that rested on the ground next to you. With a resigned sigh, you straightened up and began to pick your way through the jagged rocks and puddles of sea water than separated you from the lighthouse. You cursed as you slipped on one of the rocks, scraping your hand on the rough stone and soaking your foot in the icy water. A low chuckle drifted from behind you. "Having a bit of trouble?"

You whirled around, eyes widening as you faced the stranger. He was practically a carbon copy of Madame Lutece, aside from his gender of course. Even their clothes were identical, except that the man wore trousers instead of a skirt. He bowed his head in a polite greeting, speaking with the same accent as his sister. "I am Robert Lutece. I see you decided to accept Rosalind's invitation after all."

"How is this lighthouse going to get me to Columbia?" You asked, resting one hand on your hip. "Is there an airship station at the top or something?"

"Something like that." Robert handed you a folded slip of parchment. "You'll need this. And remember, Miss (Y/L/N) -- Comstock is the ultimate authority in the city. If you can manage to stay on the Prophet's good side, no harm will come to you."

"Thanks, but I--" You cut yourself off when you looked up from tucking the parchment into your pocket and found yourself alone. The male Lutece had seemingly vanished with no trace. You sighed. "Alright. Looks like I've got a bit of a climb ahead of me."

You jogged up the stairs to the weathered wooden doors, shivering in the cold sea air. The door had been left slightly open; you cautiously pushed it inwards, stepping into the lighthouse interior. You were immediately met by the sight of a framed print reading "Of Thy Sins Shall I Wash Ther" hanging over a small metal basin. You shook your head and rolled your eyes. "Easier said than done."

The only other thing in the large, drafty room was a rickety staircase and another print on the wall next to it -- this one reading "From Sodom Shall I Lead Thee." You chuckled under your breath. "I knew Zachary was religious, but this is ridiculous."

At the top of the staircase, you found a large room containing a couple of desks, a hanging map on the wall, and some extra supplies that looked like they'd be used for baptisms. It also looked like someone had been living there, if the neatly made bed, large sink, and chest of drawers were any indication. You strode cautiously across the room, where you were met with another staircase and yet another print: "To Thine Own Land Shall I Take Thee." You groaned, growing annoyed with all of these stairs and empty rooms. The next floor was completely empty except for a few barrels, and of course a new print; "In New Eden Soil Shall I Plant Thee."

When you finally reached the top of the lighthouse, you found yourself shivering in the cold air on a metal balcony wrapped around the room containing the light. The door to the light room was locked by a peculiar looking device made up if a delicate angel carved into the metal door and three brass bells. You stared at the unorthodox lock, crossing your arms. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

You half expected one of the Lutece siblings to appear from nowhere with the answer to your question (honestly, it wouldn't have surprised you at this point), but no such luck. With a huff, you apathetically kicked the door, your skin crawling from the cold, damp air. That was when you remembered the parchment Robert had given you. You whipped it out, your chilled fingers fumbling to unfold the thick, paper-like material. On the paper were three symbols: a scroll, a key, and a sword. Next to the scroll somewhen had scrawled a messy '1,' next to the key a '2,' and another '2' next to the sword. You groaned. "Well that just makes everything crystal clear, doesn't it!"

You sighed, slumping forward and resting your head on the cool metal next to the first bell. That was when you noticed the image of a scroll etched into the brass. Your eyes widened. "Wait a second..."

Sure enough, there was a key etched into the second bell, and a sword on the third. Not sure exactly what you were going to accomplish, you shrugged and began ringing the bells as instructed in Robert's note; the scroll once, the key twice, and the sword twice. No sooner had you rung the last bell than a loud foghorn sounded, causing you to jump and make a very undignified squeaking sound. Red lights began to flash in the sky as the fog horn sounded several more times. An odd humming sound filled the air as the door began to make odd clicking noises, before finally unlocking and swinging open. As you stepped into the light room, the light itself ascended upwards towards the ceiling, allowing a red cushioned chair to slide up from a hole in the floor. You cautiously approached the chair, your brain still buzzing slightly from the loud fog horn. You shook your head. This had to be the weirdest lighthouse in the world. But, having met the Luteces, you probably should have expected as much.

You explored the light room as thoroughly as you could, but there was literally nothing in the room except for the chair, which seemed oddly ominous, almost threatening. You knew where this was going, and you didn't like it. 'It's not too late,' you reasoned in your head, 'I could turn right back around and take that dingy little rowboat back to the mainland. I could catch the next train and be back home by this time tomorrow.' But no, you had come here on the promise of a second chance, and you intended to collect. With a deep breath to settle your nerves, you sat down in the creepy chair.

As soon as you had taken your seat, hidden mechanisms started whirring, a pair of hidden metal restraints snapping into place around your wrists. You jumped, gasping out in panic as you tugged helplessly at the restraints. Several metal panels shot up out of the floor, closing around you to form a sort of capsule. You screamed at the top of your lungs, hoping against hope that there was a lighthouse-keeper somewhere that you had somehow missed. Or maybe Robert was still around. You longed for someone, anyone, to stop whatever was about to happen. Your chest tightened with terror as you caught a glimpse of fire bursting to life below your feet. You fought ferociously against the chair's bindings. "Stop this! Get me outta here! Somebody help!"

A strange, oddly mechanical voice spoke through some kind of hidden speaker. "Ascension... Ascension in the count of FIVE..." You screamed. You were by no means a language scholar, but you knew that ascension meant going up. "Count of FOUR..." This is what you got for trusting two suspicious redheads you didn't even know, you mused. "THREE..." Tears started to pool in your eyes, despite your best efforts to blink them back. If you were going to die here, you sure as hell weren't going to die blubbering like a baby. "TWO..." You stared out the glass window across from our chair, a nauseous feeling invading your stomach. "ONE..."

And suddenly the capsule was rocketing upwards at a speed you wouldn't have though possible. You screamed and screamed until you were gasping for air, unable to tear your eyes away from the window, giving you a clear view of how high and how fast you were going. And still that voice droned on in monotone. "Ascension... Ascension..." You felt like you might physically be sick. "Five thousand feet..." The whole capsule was shaking, as if it might fall to pieces at any moment. "Ten thousand feet..." You wondered with dread how well-made this thing was, and if it had been tested before. "Fifteen thousand feet..." You couldn't see anything but thick grey-white clouds now, and despite the capsule's thick walls you felt like the clouds were suffocating you. Suddenly, you broke through the clouds, momentarily blinded by the sudden, brilliant light. "Hallelujah."

There it was. A city you had only heard about, only seen paintings of and heard stories about. Yet here it was, right before your eyes. Columbia. Everything was bathed with warm, golden light, as if it really were paradise. The famed angel monument stood in the center of it all, like a beacon of hope. A few airships travelled between the floating buildings with a slow, leisurely pace. Once again, you were nearly brought to tears, but now for a completely different reason. It was absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. 

The capsule drifted lazily above the city, giving you a good look at the impossible sight. The sky was brilliantly blue, soft white clouds sweeping up against buildings. You felt your heart rate returning to normal, your breathing slowing to a healthy pace. The capsule landed a bit roughly on the top of one of the buildings, rattling you and setting you on edge once again. You tugged half-heartedly at the restraints as the capsule descended inside the building, done into what might have been the inside of a clock tower, all giant gears and hulking machinery. There were occasional panels with words carved into them, and although you were descending too fast to read all of them, you gathered that it was something about the mercy of The Lord and how he had gifted the people with a New Eden. But what came next really took your breath away.

The capsule landed in front of a huge stained glass window, sunlight shining through and washing the room with a rosy glow. The window depicted a man with a snowy white beard standing before a crowd of adoring people, pointing towards a golden city floating in the sky. You didn't even have to read the caption to get the message; it was a clear illustration of the beloved project leading his people to a better land among the clouds.

The restraints snapped open, freeing your wrists, which were already beginning to form bruises from fighting so hard. The capsule doors opened, overwhelming you with warm, moist air and the smell of fresh flowers. This whole place seemed to be some kind of temple or shrine, hundreds of candles all over the place and a few inches of water covering the floor. You stood up, cautiously stepping forward into the "New Eden." 

Your feet had scarcely touched the water before a strong hand gripped your shoulder affectionately. You looked up into a weathered face hidden by a bushy white beard, smiling kindly down at you. "Welcome to Columbia, child."

"Mr. Comstock?" Your eyes widened, scarcely recognizing the man you had met so many years earlier. Then again, you were in no position to talk -- you barely remembered the innocent child you had been when you met him. "Is it really you? It's been such a long time."

He chuckled warmly. "Actually, it's Father Comstock now. It's good to see you, (Y/N)." He took your elbow, guiding you to follow him. "Walk with me."

"This is quite the city you've built up here." You offered, assuming the role of a polite young woman.

Comstock nodded, smiling in a warm, almost fatherly way. "Shortly after I left your family, The Lord granted me a vision. I did not understand at first, but I soon saw that I had been called to lead His people, to deliver them from the Sodom below." He patted your shoulder affectionately. "I am glad that you chose to join us in salvation, child."

He continued speaking as you lead you through the silent temple, occasionally passing men and women dressed in white robes, who bowed to the Prophet as he passed and eyed you with guarded curiosity. "I apologize for the... unorthodox means of travel. Unfortunately, Columbia can no longer afford to take on new pilgrims. I asked the Luteces to arrange a way for a single passenger to ascend in secret, and this was the best they could do on short notice."

"I'm fine, Father Comstock." You spoke in a soft, girly tone, but you couldn't help the haunted edge that tainted your words. "Believe me, I've been in less comfortable situations."

"Yes..." The older man murmured thoughtfully, studying your face as if he could see your past written in your eyes. "You have, haven't you?"

The two of were soon stopped by an elderly man in white robes, who took smiled at you with something sinister glimmering in his eyes. "Prophet, shall I baptize this one?"

"No need." Comstock waved the priests hands away. He guided you to a door, which opened out into what looked like a park, all green and warm and full of sunlight. You could see a small airship connected to a metal dock across the green landscape. Comstock smiled and made a grand gesture toward the ship. "The First Lady. Dedicated to my late wife, of course. The finest airship in Columbia."

"I'm sorry to hear about your wife." You spoke sincerely, his words sparking memories of your own experiences with death and loss.

"She's in a better place now." Comstock lead you to the dock, where a familiar figure stood waiting for you. "Ah, Madame Lutece. Good of you to join us."

"I wouldn't have missed it." Rosalind spoke with a tight-lipped smile. She turned to face you, her eyes scanning your face studiously. "Miss (Y/L/N), I'm glad to see you made the journey safely. Allow me to help you aboard."

Before you could protest, Rosalind had locked an iron grip around your upper arm, pushing you in front of her as she steered you up the ramp and into the belly of the airship. Her mouth was scarcely more than an inch from your ear, her voice an urgent whisper that even you could barely hear. "I'm sure my brother has already given you his warning, but Robert doesn't quite seem to grasp how dangerous a place like this can be for a woman on her own." Her hold on your arm tightened. "Go along with whatever the Prophet says. Even if you disagree with his teachings, as I daresay you will, you must convincingly play the part of a loyal follower. Not a problem for you, I'm sure." You set your jaw, suspecting that this woman knew far too much about your unsavory career.

Rosalind helped you into the ship, leading you through to the captain's room, all while continuing to hiss advice in your ear as if it were life or death. "When He comes--" she put an extra emphasis on the word 'he,' "--He will need a guide. You have to trust him."

"Who--?" But before you could even finish your question, Rosalind had released her grip on you and taken several steps back, a cheerful smile plastered on her face. "I do hope you enjoy your time in Columbia, Miss (Y/L/N)." Her eyes locked with yours, a flash of sober understanding passing between the two of you. "You'll find that there's more to the city than you ever imagined."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I'm so in love with the Luteces. Especially Rosalind, because being an intellectual woman in the 19th/20th centuries was NOT easy. I would honestly love to have a game that was just "Lutece Twins Adventures In Time And Space." So yeah, expect them to have a slightly larger role in this story than they did in the game. 
> 
> I wonder who the "He" Rosalind was talking about is, hmm? *insert winking emoji face here*


End file.
